by Diane Kelly
He opened the door and went down the steps, through the open walkway, and into the parking lot. Marquise, Long Dong, and Gato were back on their cars, sitting on the hoods like the storm had never happened.
Dub had never liked taking what wasn’t his, but he’d done what he’d had to do to survive. Begged neighbors for food when his mother was too high on meth to feed him. Stolen shoes off a porch so he wouldn’t have to go barefoot. Pocketed a tip left for the waiter as he made his way out of a café after going inside to use the restaurant’s bathroom. That time they’d run out of soap and he needed the money to buy a bar.
But a storm like this? It could be a godsend of sorts. Looting was stealing. Dub knew that. But insurance would cover any losses, wouldn’t it? He didn’t want to commit yet another crime, but what choice did he have? Morals and ethics were for those who could afford them. Someday, when he got on his feet and had a real job, he’d find a way to repay what he’d taken, to make his wrongs right.
But there were some wrongs that could never be righted.
Dub lifted his chin at the three men. “Hey.”
“’Sup?” asked Marquise, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Sounds like the storm caused some trouble,” Dub said. “Could make it easy to find some loot.”
Marquise stood and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good thinking, WC.” He turned to the others and waved them down from the cars. “Let’s roll.”
Ten minutes later, they were cruising down Berry Street in Gato’s silver Sentra. Not exactly a tough gangsta car, but it was the least likely to fall apart on the drive.
The condition of the buildings got worse as they made their way west.
“Ho-o-ly shit,” Marquise said. “Looks like a tornado went right through here.”
Roofs had been ripped off houses and businesses, leaving only wood framing and pink foam insulation. Trees and fences and signs were down, electric wires, too, some sparking on the wet ground like fireworks. All kinds of stuff was scattered along the streets, sidewalks, and parking lots, everything from overturned shopping carts to children’s toys to mailboxes. There was even one of those outdoor Redbox machines resting at an angle against a smashed car.
When a downed sign from a doughnut shop blocked the road and they could drive no farther, Gato pulled down a side street and parked at the curb. The four climbed out, slamming their doors shut behind them.
They picked their way down the street, checking things out, keeping an eye out for anything that might be useful to them or that could be resold for cash.
“Check that out.” Dub pointed to a building a half block ahead. It was a liquor store missing half its roof, its front windows shattered, the burglar bars on one span of glass twisted out of place. The store was dark inside and looked abandoned.
Led by Dub, the young men headed to the store. As they peeked through the opening where the front window had once been, a fiftyish black man came through a swinging door at the back.
When the man saw Dub and the others in the window, his eyes went wide and he raised his hands in the air. “I don’t want no trouble!”
“Neither do we!” Dub called back. No sense letting the guy get a close look at them. Better to move on and find a store that was unoccupied.
But the others had a different plan.
Dub heard a metallic rattle and click, and turned to find Marquise, Long Dong, and Gato with guns in their hands, the barrels pointed at the man. Damn. This was not what he’d had in mind.
“Take whatever you want!” the man cried. “I won’t stop you! Just please don’t hurt me! I’ve got a wife and kids!”
Shit. Things had already gone further than Dub had intended. With guns involved, the cops would take this crime more seriously. The last thing he needed right now was the police on his tail. If they started snooping around, asking questions, things could get bad for him. Very bad.
“Hold on.” Dub pointed at a security camera mounted over the register. “If we go in there we’ll be caught on tape.”
“No we won’t,” Marquise said. “The camera don’t work when the electricity is out.”
Dub wasn’t so sure. Thieves were known to cut off power to security systems. The thing might have a battery backup. But every time they showed security videos on the news the pictures were pixilated and blurry. If he put up his hood, the camera wouldn’t be able to get a good shot of him, right?
He pulled his hood up and over his head, tugging on the edges until it shaded his face like he were some type of Grim Reaper.
“Be careful not to leave fingerprints,” he told the others. “Any one of us leaves a print, we’ll all go down.”
Gato pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt down to cover his fingers, then grabbed the burglar bars with his covered hand and swung under them like a Latino chimpanzee. Marquise was next, followed by Long Dong. Dub was the last to squeeze through. He was careful not to touch the bars with his hands.
The store carried a row of household items at the front. Dub looked over the merchandise until he found what he was looking for. Latex gloves. He grabbed four packages.
“Yo,” he called to the others. “Here. Take the bag with you when we go.” He tossed them each a package of gloves. He tore his package open, removed the gloves, and shoved the empty package into his pocket. Sliding his hands into the bright orange gloves, he was ready now.
A life-sized cardboard cutout of a blonde in a red bikini lay cockeyed across a display of canned beer. “Check out these tits!” Gato grabbed the cutout with his gloved hands. He turned it to face the others, then groped and humped the cardboard woman from behind. “Oh, baby! Is it good for you, too?”
Long Dong snickered. “You suck at this!” he cried in a fake woman’s voice, pretending to be the blonde. “I want the Asian guy!”
Holding the cardboard woman in front of him, Gato charged at Long Dong.
Long Dong sliced the air with a bladed hand. “Hi-yah!” When his hand met the woman’s neck, the cardboard bent and her head folded over backward.
Gato grabbed her head, ripped it off, and tossed the headless body aside. “I never liked her anyway. Too bitchy.”
Marquise headed to the front checkout counter. “The cash register is mine!”
Dub watched as Marquise jabbed buttons on the machine but couldn’t get it open.
Marquise slammed a fist down on the register but it remained closed. “What’s the code?” he yelled, waving his gun at the clerk.
“Two-two-seven!” the man cried. “Then hit the Enter key.”
Marquise punched the keys and the cash drawer dinged open. “Now we’re talking.” He grabbed a plastic bag from under the counter and shoved handfuls of money into it.
Long Dong and Gato went to the back storeroom and returned with cardboard boxes. They grabbed bottles of liquor from the shelves and packed them into the boxes.
Dub wasn’t interested in alcohol. He walked up to the customer side of the counter and held out a hand to Marquise. “Give me a bag, man.”
Marquise yanked another bag from under the counter and tossed it to Dub. Dub pulled packages of beef jerky and nuts and sunflower seeds from the metal hooks at the display by the register and dropped them into the bag.
Once he’d taken all of the jerky and nuts, Dub looked around, trying to figure out what to take next, how to make the most of the situation. Should he grab cigarettes? He could probably resell them at the apartment complex or at the bus stops.
As he tried to decide what to take next, he looked over at the bag in Marquise’s hand. Didn’t look like the dude had gotten much cash from the register. Not many people used cash these days. Ha. Dub felt better knowing Marquise wasn’t getting rich here today. It wasn’t fair the guy had called dibs on the cash. But guys like Marquise didn’t give a crap about fairness.
The register was empty now, and Marquise headed to the back room, probably to get a box.
“Hey, man,” Dub said. “Bring me a box, too.”
Asshole. Dub hurried to the stockroom, grabbed a box with a Smirnoff Vodka label, and went to the cigarette display behind the checkout counter. He’d planned to grab cartons of cigarettes from the shelves, but his eyes landed on something that could be way more valuable.
Scratch-off lottery tickets.
Ha! Marquise hadn’t thought to take the tickets. Dumbass. But would he try to take them from Dub? Dub didn’t trust the guy.
Dub grabbed the rolls of lottery tickets, yanking the entire spool from the display, starting with the $10.00 10X Mega Money tickets and working his way down to the $1 Tic Tac Toads. He’d just removed the final roll when Marquise emerged from the end of an aisle, his open-topped box tinkling as the glass bottles inside rattled against each other.
Marquise cut a look at Dub. “Don’t touch the Kools or Marlboros. Those are mine.”
Dub grabbed several boxes of Camels and lay them longways in the box to hide the lottery tickets.
Marquise stepped up next to him and looked down into Dub’s box. “Shit, man. I meant to say the Camels are mine, too.”
He grabbed a box of cigarettes out of Dub’s cardboard box. Before he could take another Dub pulled the box away. “Get your fucking hand out of my box.”
Marquise laughed. “A’ight, man. Relax.”
When each of them had filled their box, they headed to the front door.
Marquise took one last look at the store clerk and held up his gun. “You never saw us. Got that? Don’t make me have to come back here and set you straight.”
The man nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Whatever you say.”
Marquise shoved the barrel of his gun into the front of his jeans, picked up his box, and climbed back out the broken window. Long Dong went after him, then Gato, then Dub.
Gato stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and Dub bumped into his back. He noticed Marquise and Long Dong were standing still, too. Dub stepped to the side to figure out why none of them were moving.
Oh shiiit.
Twenty feet away stood a soaking wet female police officer with a German shepherd on a leash. The cop raised her hand. “Hold it right there.”
TWENTY-TWO
LOOT-N-SHOOT
Megan
I’d spent the last half hour dripping and shivering, partly from nerves, partly from the cooler air that had now settled over the city. My soaking shoes emitted a wet skwunch with each step as I gingerly picked my way around the area, calling into the wreckage, trying to figure out whether there were any survivors who needed immediate help. With my cruiser out of commission and the roads fully blocked with debris, I couldn’t do much other than radio reports into dispatch to help them determine where to direct the emergency crews.
Brigit trotted along beside me, stopping occasionally to shake moisture from her fur. She sniffed at the rubble, probably hoping to find food scraps or an errant squirrel who’d been caught up in the storm.
The windows at the pizza place had all shattered and the dining room furniture had been scattered by the storm, chairs and tables positioned haphazardly about the space, some still standing on their legs, others lying on their sides. Luckily, the five customers who’d been eating lunch and the seven employees who’d been on duty had all taken cover in the freezer. They’d emerged slightly frostbitten but without a scratch on them. I’d advised them their best course of action would be to wait for the city’s street crews to clear the roadways before trying to leave, but that if they wanted to attempt to walk home they should be extra careful given the wreckage strewn about.
The doughnut shop had fared much worse, its entire roof missing and two of the walls caved in. Bricks mixed with squashed éclairs and rain-soaked napkins lay in a messy pile. Brigit had helped herself to a squashed, rain-soaked bear claw as I’d called into the rubble—“Is anyone in there? Hello? Anybody?”—but heard no response. According to the hours posted in the part of the front window that was still intact, the place was open only from 6 to 10 A.M. each day. With any luck, nobody had been in the place when it came down.
My next stop had been the Bag-N-Bottle, where I discovered a surprisingly integrated street gang exiting the space after having looted the store.
I raised a palm. “Hold it right there.”
The four men who’d just emerged from the Bag-N-Bottle stopped in their tracks and stared at me. All carried cardboard boxes, all appeared to be in their twenties, and all wore orange latex gloves, blue jeans, and hooded sweatshirts, like some type of hip-hop cleaning crew. DJ Tidy and the Kleen Machine.
Their attire was where their similarities stopped, however. The first who’d come out was a well-muscled African-American, with hard, soulless eyes, the color of which matched his dark-roast skin. The next was a skinny Asian with a neck tattoo and a flinty glare. The third was a lanky Latino with a somewhat pointy, lightly bearded chin that gave him a feline appearance. He was far more predatory panther than happy housecat, though, his gaze powerful and penetrating and pissed as hell.
The last one was a little harder to pinpoint, race-wise. His hair was dark and curly, like a Labradoodle’s, with a cowlick on the left. His skin was the color of cappuccino, approximately two shades darker than my own latte color. His face bore approximately three days’ worth of dark stubble. He resembled a scruffy version of the singer Prince. If I had to guess, I’d say that, like me, he was of mixed race. He wore a white hoodie with a black cartoon tornado on the front. Fitting, I supposed. A few inches of chain hung down from under his hoodie. Looked like he carried one of those chain wallets popular with bikers.
Something about this last guy seemed familiar. Had I crossed paths with him before? Maybe pulled him over for speeding or running a red light? Who knew? Certainly not me. Not at the moment, anyway. My thoughts were as scattered as the debris around me. But the fact that he’d taken pains to wear gloves told me he his prints could be on file with law enforcement. Then again, maybe he was just a smart cookie who knew better than to leave any evidence behind, record or not.
My first instinct was to tell the four to put the boxes down and their hands up, but then I realized that as long as they were holding on to their boxes none of them would be able to pull a weapon on me, should they have one. My mind attempted to access my police training, to remember how to handle a situation like this, but my mind was still rattled. The last half hour of my life had been terrifying and traumatic and, honestly, the only thing I wanted to do right now was curl up in a nice, warm bed and cry. It took everything in me not to fall to pieces in front of these thugs.
Should I order them to stay still, then frisk each of them? Frankly, getting closer to the group didn’t seem wise. One of them might attack me while I was searching another.
Should I have them spread out? Divide and conquer? That could work, though I couldn’t have them spread too far apart or I wouldn’t be able to watch them all at once. For the first time since I’d been partnered with Brigit, I found myself wishing I had a human partner to consult with.
“You.” I pointed to the one in the tornado hoodie. “Take two steps to your right.”
He exhaled a long, frustrated breath, but did as I told him.
“You on the other end,” I said, pointing to the Asian, “take two steps to your left.”
He, too, did as he was told, though he cast a glance at the large black guy before doing so, as if seeking permission or forgiveness.
“You,” I pointed to the cat man now, “take a big step forward.”
After several seconds’ hesitation he took a step toward me, but calling it a big step would have been an exaggeration.
My eyes met those of their leader now. I’d seen eyes more full of hate, eyes more full of rage. But what I hadn’t seen before were eyes so cold and uncaring. This guy didn’t give a shit about anything, maybe not even himself. And people who didn’t care about anything could do some very vile things.
His upper
lip quirked in a sneer. “If you think I’m gonna play your game of Mother May I? you are sorely mistaken, sister.”
Before I could realize what was happening, he set his box on the ground, pulled off his right glove, and whipped out a handgun from under his sweatshirt. He aimed the gun at my face.
Holy.
Shit.
I had to fight to keep from wetting myself. Not that these hoodlums would have noticed, what with me being soaked to the skin. My hand shook as I pushed the button on my shoulder-mounted radio. “Backup needed at the Bag-N-Bottle on Berry Street. Armed robbery in progress.”
The dispatcher’s voice came back a few seconds later, her response loud enough for the men to hear. “Access to the area is still limited. It may be awhile.”
The sneering man laughed full out now.
I’m in trouble here.
BIG trouble.
My Kevlar vest would protect my chest, but my head was totally exposed, and Brigit had no protection at all. I probably should have pulled my gun from my holster then, but as I’d mentioned, my brain was still swirling like the twister that had just passed through. Instead, my hand reflexively went for my weapon of choice. My baton. I yanked it from my belt and extended it with a flick of my wrist. Snap!
The man with the gun laughed again and shook his head. “What’s your plan, chickee chickee? Gonna hit my bullet away with your stick?” He made a swinging motion with his left hand, mimicking a batter taking a swing at a baseball.
“Maybe I am.” Yeah, right.
Okay, so I’d just made a fool of myself. Time for some redemption.
I bent down and used my left hand to unclip the leash from Brigit’s collar, but gave her the order to stay by my side for now. Realizing things were heating up, she quivered next to me, ready for action. I transferred my baton to my left hand and pulled my gun from my holster, pointing it back at the guy. Well, I sort of pointed it at him. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t keep my aim straight. Damn!
